A Portrait of the King as a Young Schoolboy
by Valiant Me
Summary: Peter tries to reconcile his lives, past and present. A companion piece to my story "I Am Streched on Your Grave".


There is nothing Peter particularly dislikes about being back in school. It's not that he doesn't like his subjects. He actually rather enjoys learning about things like how history affects cultural behavior and the intricacies of political science from the safety of a classroom, rather than slammed into them headfirst while trying to rule a foreign kingdom.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy playing sports with his fellows. Playing is fun because, in cricket, losing doesn't risk giving up near half of the northern marshes. It's not even that he doesn't like being part of the societies and the clubs. He actually rather likes being elected a leader by unanimous consent, instead of being rather suddenly forced into both leadership and the not-always-kind expectations of the people he was meant to rule.

So, no, there is nothing Peter _particularly_ dislikes about school. But he _hates_ it.

He hates being talked down to by teachers who assume his ignorance, naiveté and compliance on every matter. He hates being thought complicit in stupid jokes and lewd remarks by his peers. He hates having to go back: to learning, and hurting, and growing, and discovering. He's been _through_ this.

He's had the growth-spurts and the embarrassing dreams. He's had the burning curiosity and the thirst for more, before. He's been forced to discover the price of truth and the complexities of morality. He's grown stronger, faster, wiser. He's already tripped over words and chosen the wrong things. He has been humiliated and rewarded. He has fought stupidly and he has fought bravely. He's learnt the value of humility, patience, levelheadedness. He has fallen in love.

"What do you miss the most about it?" Edmund asks him carelessly, on a particularly warm day before the end of term. They've met on the lawn by the river before dinner. They're enjoying the last few days before they _really_ have to start revising for their exams.

"About Narnia?" Peter asks without taking his eyes off the rowers.

"No, about the air-raids." Edmund rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Yes, about Narnia!"

They all like to do this. Talk about it. Spend hour upon hour discussing past battles and trials and dances; recounting every last detail of the last cupboard in Cair Paravel; describing every single acquaintance in intimate detail, as if they might risk forgetting. Lucy said it did them well to keep memories alive; said it honored them.

Peter plays along every once in a while; more so than Susan does, at least. He enjoys himself sometimes: remembering past glories when he was thirty rather than dwelling on present embarrassments at fifteen.

But today was one of those days when he _actually_ remembered.

"I should think that was rather obvious." He said somberly, looking down to yank some grass leaves off the ground.

Edmund turned to look at him sharply, mortification clearly written on his face.

"Oh, Pete. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

It's almost as if he'd forgotten.

"I think I almost forget, sometimes." Edmund admits sheepishly, to his surprise. "You never talk about it."

He never did. Not since the very first days at Professor Kirke's, when he'd tried desperately and to no avail to go back through the wardrobe. Good old Digory had sat him down for a long chat after he'd found him bloodying his fists against the back of his beloved relic.

"I know. I'd like to tell you that it's because it hurts too much. But…" He hesitates to admit such a painful secret to his brother. "Truth is, I think I forget sometimes too."

Edmund nods sympathetically.

"I don't mean… It's not as if I forget _her._ " Peter can't even bring himself to say her name. Because Lucy's wrong: it honors nobody to remember like they do, by halves. "I remember just as I remember anything else. I remember the first time I saw her and I remember telling her I loved her. I remember our wedding and I know exactly what I told her right before we left for the hunt."

 _A kiss for luck, my love?_

 _Edmund is so stubbornly sure he's going catch it all by himself I just might need it._

"So I do remember, you see. I force myself to remember. To think about it as much as possible, to never forget the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin. But even while I remember I know I remember wrong."

Edmund is clearly confused by this. The rowing team has finished practice and are now trudging near them. He lowers his voice, so that they can't catch their conversation, even though Peter is already speaking scarcely above a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"It was cruel of him. So cruel." Peter is close to tears now and this makes him angry. He's made peace with this before. He shouldn't let it upset him anymore.

"Cruel of who?"

"WHO DO YOU THINK? ASLAN!" He hollers, startling a couple of the rowers who stare at them in bemusement.

"Let's go for a walk." Edmund says firmly, and in a second, he's his right hand again, his most trusted advisor, the warrior who always has his back. "Edmund, the Just" they called him.

He snorts a little when this brings back memories of his own epithet. Would any Narnian call him "Magnificent" if they saw him now, an angry adolescent schoolboy in schoolboy clothes?

They are walking away now and Edmund looks at him in worry. Peter knows he's not usually like this. He always tries to be the High King, the big brother: reliable, levelheaded, sound.

"What do you mean that it was cruel of Aslan?"

"Don't you think what he did to us was cruel, just a little? He didn't just strip us away from everything we'd built and everyone we loved. He brought us back to _this_." He tears at his school vest in annoyance and disgust.

"But that's not even it! It's not even so much that I have to be fifteen again and you have to be eleven again and we have to go through _everything_ again. I mean it's annoying, sure… to have the body of a fifteen year-old again would've been annoying all on its own. But that's not what he did, is it?"

Edmund is still puzzled and it annoys him.

"You're not King Edmund in an eleven year-old body, Ed. You are eleven year-old Edmund again! Not the same one you were before Narnia to be sure, but all the same."

Edmund looks ready to argue.

"Do you honestly think you could hold your own in a sword-fight right now, Ed?"

"Probably not." Edmund admits as they sit down again, a little further down the lawn.

"So that's what I mean by remembering wrong. I remember Ilwyfen" _There! He'd said it!_ "and everything we went through. I remember the sound of her voice and the smell of her skin. But they are half-memories, vague memories, recollections of somebody else's life. I don't… I can't… feel about her as I did, nor miss her like I should because… well because fifteen-year-old me isn't ready for such feelings. Does that make sense?"

Edmund nods slowly.

"So when I think about her I hate that I don't really feel as much as I should. And I hate that I don't worry often enough… I mean do _you_? What the hell happened to her? To all of them? Susan's baby was still at Cair Paravel…"

"Don't you think, though" Edmund says quietly, after a while, "that Aslan did it this way, precisely because of that?"

"I mean, if you were actually a thirty- something battle-worn, highly respected High King in the body of a fifteen year old English school-boy… if you could actually remember your wife and how much you loved her vividly… you'd go mad, Pete. We all would."

Peter looks at him in surprise. He's never thought of it that way. He's too busy simmering in self-hatred and regret.

"You always _were_ the wise one, Ed."

He laughs good-naturedly.

"He has a plan for us, I'm sure of it. I'm not about to doubt him again. Come, on" he jumps up and offers Peter his hand "We don't want to miss the pie."


End file.
